


No Jealous Sky

by asterisms



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Fun with Infinity Stones, Gen, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), some borderline philosophical bs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 06:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14731352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterisms
Summary: *Infinity War Spoilers*“You invaded New York.”“I did many things.”Peter glances at the man out of the corner of his eye, then shrugs.“Alright, then.”Or: Loki guides Peter through the afterlife (or something like it)





	1. Chapter 1

Awareness comes with a voice.

“Peter.”

The last wisps of a pleasant dream crumble to dust, fleeing just beyond his grasp.

“C’mon, Pete. Time to get up.”

He can’t help the groan that slips out as he burrows deeper into the warmth that surrounds him. Drifting in the haze that exists in the moments before true wakefulness hits, he presses his face to his pillow and breathes, just breathes. Just for a moment.

“Oh, no you don’t."

This is all the warning he gets.

The sheets are ripped off him, leaving him shivering, and he sits up with a shout.

“What the-”

“Careful.”

“Fu-rick,” he finishes with a sheepish smile.

“That’s what I thought,” his uncle tells him, his arms crossed and a stern look on his face, betrayed only by the hint of a smile.

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” Peter complains as he flops back down to lie in the fading patch of warmth.

“I made pancakes.”

“I take it back,” Peter says as he springs out of bed and stumbles into a bear hug, his uncle’s arms all but squeezing the air from his lungs, “You’re the best and I love you.”

“Uh-huh. Well, if you don’t hurry up, May’s gonna eat them all.”

A few minutes later, he’s finished dressing and can hear laughter spilling into the hall. On the way toward his promised breakfast, Peter leans against the doorway to watch as Ben chases May around the kitchen, brandishing a dish towel at her as she steals a piece of bacon from a plate on the counter.

When Ben finally catches her with an arm around her waist, Peter takes advantage of their distraction to dart forward, snatching the bacon from her hand and shoving it into his mouth. May turns to him, a look of profound offense on her face, and Peter chews happily in her direction, baring his teeth in a bacon-filled smile.

“Peter!” she exclaims, but before she can even try to muster up a lecture on manners, Ben presses a kiss to her cheek and she leans back against his chest with a sigh, smiling helplessly as she asks, “What am I gonna do with you?”

Peter pretends to consider this.

“Feed me?” he suggests.

Shaking her head, May grabs a few plates of food off the counter and carries them toward the small table that sits between the kitchen and their small living room.

“If I must,” she says.

“There’s no avoiding it,” Ben tells her, ruffling Peter’s hair as he passes to grab the remaining plates, “he’ll never stop complaining, otherwise.”

Peter huffs and crosses his arms as he watches his aunt and uncle exchange teasing smiles, endlessly entertained by each other.

“Are you done?” he asks them, though he can’t quite manage to sound annoyed.

“Never,” his uncle says, catching May’s hand in his own and pressing a kiss to her palm. She swats at his shoulder, but she’s smiling as she does it, and Peter has to press a hand to his chest, as if that could smother the wordless swell of emotion that rises there.

“You guys are so gross,” he says, but he can tell neither of them believe him, and he finally gives in to the emotion, letting a beaming grin spread across his face.

“Eat your breakfast,” is all May says in reply.

Peter is happy to comply.

When he hears his uncle clear his throat a few minutes later, Peter looks up from where he’s attempting to shove an entire pancake into his mouth. May is watching him with a look of disgusted fascination, so he slowly sets down his fork and turns to his uncle.

“What’s up?” he asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees May shake her head at him before turning toward his uncle, an encouraging smile on her face.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat again, “I just wanted to let you know that I was able to get off work this evening, so I’ll be able to come to your band concert after all.”

Peter fells himself perk up, watching his uncle with wide eyes.

“Really?” he asks. “That’s great!”

Except-

Wait.

“Peter?”

This isn’t-

He shakes his head.

“Nothing.” He smiles at his uncle, and it feels as if he’s out of step, suddenly. “I’m just- I’m really happy.”

“Well, good.”

He sees the concerned look his aunt and uncle share, but he does his best to ignore it, poking listlessly at his food. He takes a bite, and it’s like ash in his mouth.

He can’t spit it out.

“I’m gonna go finish getting ready,” he says as he pushes back from the table.

His uncle grabs his arm in a gentle hold, and Peter stops. When his eyes catch on the patch of gray at his uncle's temple, he can't help but focus on it.

His uncle’s hair is dark.

There’s no gray in it, not yet.

And yet.

He reaches out, as if to touch it, and only just manages to stop himself.

This is wrong, isn't it?

“Peter, what’s going on?” his uncle asks. His voice echoes strangely in the space between them, warping in ways it never has before. In ways it _shouldn’t_.

“Nothing,” he says, and wills himself to believe it, “everything’s fine.”

“You’re acting very strange,” his aunt says. She stands and presses a hand to his forehead, frowning when she feels no sign of fever. “You can tell us if anything is bothering you, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter hears himself say, “of course.”

Of course he can.

He always has before.

Except-

That’s not true, is it?

Because-

“I just forgot about my concert, that’s all.”

This is all _wrong_.

“What do you mean? You’ve been telling us about it for weeks now,” his aunt says, and Peter feels as if the air in the room has grown thin, “are you sure you’re alright?”

Why is this wrong?

He doesn’t want this to be wrong.

And yet.

“I don’t understand,” Peter says through a shuddering breath. He shakes off his uncle’s hold and stumbles back.

He covers his eyes with his hands, only letting them fall when he feels bigger hands than his own pull them away. When he opens his eyes again, all he can see is his uncle, looking at him with such love and concern that it _hurts_ because-

Because-

He can feel his uncle’s arms as they wrap around him.

He can hear his heartbeat, strong in his chest.

But this is wrong.

Because-

He sees his uncle, bleeding.

He sees his uncle, dead on the pavement.

“You’re dead,” he says, and speaking these words is like swallowing glass.

He speaks them anyway.

 

When he looks again, his uncle is gone.

 

Everything is gone.

 

“Well done,” a new voice tells him.

Peter spins in place, shock grounding him back to the empty apartment.

He shifts into a fighting stance, but the stranger just watches him, a bored look on his face. Peter forces himself to relax, just a little.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“You mean you don’t recognize me?” The man looks out the window. “This is New York, correct?”

“Yes?”

“How wonderful.” His voice is dry as desert sand.

Peter can’t deal with this right now. He can’t deal with _anything_ right now.

But apparently he needs to.

“Look,” he says with forced geniality, “can you just tell me who you are?”

“You’re distressed.”

Peter glares. He can't help it.

“You don’t belong here,” he says, certain of this if nothing else.

The man considers this, looking vaguely offended.

“True enough,” he finally says. Then he shrugs, as if he’s decided that he doesn’t care, and says, “You don’t either.”

“Yeah, I  _know_.”

Oddly enough, seeing his dead uncle was enough to alert him to this, Peter thinks spitefully. The man just keeps looking at him.

“Hmm. I suppose you do.” Before Peter can ask, he speaks again. “Brace yourself.”

The world bends.

And then it changes.

When he next opens his eyes, Peter finds himself standing in a vast field.

All around him, grasses of shining gold and emerald green sway, reflecting the sun that sits high in the sky. When he listens, he can hear nothing but the wind as it whispers through the field and the sound of his own breathing.

“Peter Benjamin Parker.”

At the sound of his name, he looks to see that the stranger has followed him here.

“What is this?” Peter asks.

The man tilts his face toward the sun and lets out a heavy sigh.

“This,” he says, gesturing to the field, “is your afterlife. Or, rather, this is part of it.”

“What.”

His voice falls flat, and he feels as if a stone has been dropped into his chest.

“I’m sorry, was I not clear?” the man asks.

Peter ignores him.

When he looks down at his hands, they’re trembling.

He closes his eyes, and he remembers arms that hold him tight and a voice that promises he’ll be okay.

A voice that lies to him.

Mr. Stark, he thinks, and it takes everything he has not to scream.

“I died.”

“That is a prerequisite to afterlife, yes.”

“Oh my god!” Peter turns to face him. “Can you please be less of an asshole for just one second?”

“I suppose,” the man says after a substantial pause.

Peter takes a moment to breathe, but it does little to help him sort out his thoughts.

“If this is my afterlife, why are you here?”

The man frowns at him, and Peter almost thinks he won’t answer.

And then-

“Penance.”

“Penance?”

“Of a sort.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“What a pity.”

Peter does his best to stare the man down, but the stranger refuses to cooperate as he wanders a few paces away and looks deliberately toward the horizon.

“Can you tell me _anything_ useful?” Peter asks.

“Perhaps.”

With a frustrated sigh, Peter turns on his heel and begins walking in the other direction.

“Where are you going?” the man calls after him.

“No idea,” Peter yells back, but he keeps walking.

He hears the rustle of grass behind him, and the man catches up to him, matching him stride for stride.

As they walk, the sun moves through the jewel-toned sky, dipping toward the horizon but leaving their surroundings no darker than before, as if the field itself emits light.

“What’s your name?” Peter asks once enough time has passed that he’s no longer annoyed at his companion.

“Why do you ask?”

And then the annoyance is back.

“Why not?”

“Fair enough. I am Loki.”

“Of Asgard?” Peter asks as he stumbles to a surprised halt.

The stranger- _Loki_ -pauses not long after, and by the look on his face, the question might as well have been a physical blow. It’s the most expressive Peter has seen him.

It’s… disconcerting.

Finally, the man turns to face him, something heavy in his gaze.

“Yes,” Loki says, and there’s a weight that Peter can’t quite understand echoing in each word, “of Asgard.”

Peter isn’t quite sure what to say, so he says nothing.

Instead, he moves forward.

When enough time has passed, he finds his voice again.

“You invaded New York.”

“I did many things.”

Peter glances at the man out of the corner of his eye, then shrugs.

“Alright, then.”

Apparently, he’s dead now.

He has no use for grudges.

 

He keeps walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure yet how long this will be. Probably two or three more chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

“So what exactly is all of this?” Peter asks.

He’s unsure how long they’ve been walking, and although it shouldn't be true, he’s never felt better rested. Even with his enhanced strength, he should be tired by now. But he isn’t. It’s strange. Everything about this is strange.

“I already told you,” Loki says, and if Peter didn’t know better, he’d think Loki was entirely unaffected by the situation, “this is your afterlife.”

“Yeah, I know, but that doesn’t _actually_ tell me anything.”

“Hmm.”

Peter rolls his eyes. He’d stomp his foot, but the grass reaches above his knees here, and it takes nearly all of his concentration not to get tangled in it just by walking. And anyway, he doesn’t think Loki would be impressed by the display.

Maybe he should be more concerned about traipsing through the so-called afterlife with an alien god who was also, at least at one point in his life, a genocidal maniac, but he can’t quite work up the energy that would take.

What a situation he’s in.

Mr. Stark would- Well.

It doesn’t matter what Mr. Stark would think.

At least it’s nice here.

“The sooner you tell me,” he says in an attempt to blot out his thoughts, “the sooner I’ll stop asking questions.”

Loki laughs at him.

“Please,” the man says, “we both know that isn’t true.”

“Whatever,” Peter mutters, lengthening his stride in a futile attempt to put some distance between them.

Loki is freakishly tall, and no matter how fast Peter tries to walk, he always manages to keep up.

It’s frustrating.

Everything about this is frustrating.

He thinks he should probably be sad, but between his general confusion and Loki refusing to answer his questions, he hasn’t yet had the the time.

Maybe he’ll break down later. No. Scratch that. He'll definitely break down later.

He hears Loki sigh heavily behind him and stops walking. That sounded almost like defeat.

“Yes?” Peter prompts as he turns to look back at his companion.

“You’re being tested,” Loki tells him, sounding almost reluctant, “that’s why you’re here.”

And that... That sounds like a problem.

“Explain,” Peter says, “please.”

“It’s simple enough, really,” Loki says with a shrug, “you were wiped out of existence by the infinity stones. To move beyond them, you must first move through them. Six stones. Six tests.”

“You know, even when you’re being helpful, you’re very confusing.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Huh.” Peter considers Loki with a small frown, watching the way he holds himself completely still. He said he was here for penance, but Peter’s still not sure what that means. “What are you doing here, then?”

“To put it simply, I’m here to guide you."

“To make sure I get through?”

“No.” Loki holds his hands behind his back and looks out to the horizon. “I’m afraid that’s entirely up to you.”

“What happens if I fail?”

Loki just smiles at him, and it’s not pleasant at all.

“You’re not gonna tell me,” Peter says. He does his best not to let his fear show, but he doesn’t think he manages it. “Alright, then. Six tests. That sounds difficult.”

“Not so much,” Loki tells him, “You’ve already passed two.”

“Two?”

He thinks back to the vision of his uncle, alive and smiling and  _holding_ him again for the first time in years, and does his best to breathe through the ache in his chest. He almost wishes-

No.

He can’t think that way.

“Don’t be ashamed,” Loki tells him, and Peter blinks away the tears in his eyes, wondering when they got there, “you’re meant to struggle here.”

“You know, that doesn’t actually make me feel better.”

Loki tsks at him, shaking his head.

“Come, child,” he says, “ask your question.”

Peter bristles at being called a child, but as he lets indignation wash over him, he appreciates that Loki is attempting to distract him from the pain. He appreciates more that it’s working.

“Which tests have I passed?”

“Reality was the first.”

“Oh. Right. That uh- That makes sense.”

“Many find Reality the most difficult.”

“Yeah,” Peter says softly, “that makes sense, too.”

Loki considers him for a moment, then speaks again.

“The second was Space.”

“What?” Peter asks as he furrows his brows in thought, “But all I’ve done is-”

“Yes?” Loki prompts him.

“So, wait... Walking? That’s really all it takes?”

“Not quite.”

“I don’t understand,” Peter tells him, feeling helpless and hating it.

“That, child, is obvious.”

“You know,” Peter says, doing his best not to sound too bitter, “you could try to explain better.”

“You could try to be more gracious.”

“I’m dead!” Peter shouts, and feels better for doing so.

His hands are shaking.

“Yes, you are.” Loki graces him with a disdainful look. “Why should this matter? You’re hardly the first.”

Peter takes a stumbling step back, feeling as if he’s been struck.

He closes his eyes.

Wrapping his arms around himself, he does his best to remain calm. He doesn’t quite succeed.

 

Thanos won.

He knows this. The fact that Peter is here in the first place tells him that it must be true.

So, Thanos has won.

 

And Peter… Peter is dead.

His sinks down to sit in the grass.

He doesn’t _want_ to be dead.

He wants to go _home_.

He thinks of May, alone and waiting for him to return.

He thinks of Ned, sending frantic texts that he’ll never get to reply to.

He thinks of Mr. Stark-

He tries not to think of anything at all.

And yet.

 

The sun shines down upon him, and as he raises his face to the light, he feels its warmth wash over him.

 

It’s not so bad here.

Not really.

If he must die.

If he must remain…

 

He feels a hand rest upon his shoulder and lets out a shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

When he looks, he sees Loki watching him again.

“So young,” Loki says, and he speaks softly enough that Peter almost doesn’t hear the words. 

With a sigh, Peter chooses not to address his words and leans back against Loki’s hold, letting the man support some of his weight for a little while longer.

He’s so tired.

 

“You must move forward.”

“I- What?” Peter asks as he sits up straight once more, caught off guard by the urgency in Loki’s voice.

Loki’s grip on his shoulder tightens.

“To pass the second test,” he explains, “walking alone is not enough. You must move _forward_.”

“Oh.”

That actually makes sense, he thinks. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as he considers the state of his body. He's still so tired, but if he must move, then he will, as he always has.

 _C'mon, Spider-Man_ , he thinks to himself, and on shaking legs, he forces himself to rise.

“Alright then,” he says, false cheer coloring his voice until he can make it real, “How do I know which direction is forward.”

Loki looks almost proud of him, and it’s a strange thing but also a good one.

Gesturing toward the field that surrounds them, shimmering gold and swaying gently in the breeze, Loki says, “You choose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself. Also, my favorite thing to write continues to be dialogue and it shows lol


End file.
